In the Heat of the Morning
by Shoedonym
Summary: Prompt: shout out to the guy in charge of the train station at my hometown, who doesn't limit himself to announcing trains.


A/N: A fluffy little birthday present for my beloved illneverstopfightingforus on tumblr, who tried to flatter me into writing this a while back :3. The title is dedicated to David Bowie.

.

 _Prompt: shout out to the guy in charge of the train station at my hometown, who doesn't limit himself to announcing trains_

 _._

 _In the Heat of the Morning_

 _._

It was just one of those mornings.

Her pillow was just that little bit too soft, her eyes that little bit too stuck together with sleep. She couldn't find the one pair of boots that weren't currently giving her blisters, and all of her decent work clothes were waiting sadly on the floor to be cleaned. Even the flick of her eyeliner was notably stubborn and more than averagely asymmetrical.

It was cold, it was dreary-

If you asked Emma there was no such thing as a good morning.

But most particularly when she had been tossing and turning half the night, most importantly when every little step of her morning routine just seemed to go wrong.

And perhaps, most importantly of all, when she hadn't even had time for coffee.

She's too tired and rushed and the rest of the morning is a blur, beanie wrapped snuggly across her brow and her ears, trudging through the bitter wind, trying to remember everything she left at work unfinished over the weekend. It occurs to her, swiping through the station turnstile with a cursory glance at her card balance, that she only half thinks she even locked the front door after her.

The only consolation (if there is one to be found on bad mornings) is that everyone else on the station platform looks as horribly miserable as she feels.

The screens on the platform blink an obnoxious sort of blue where they would usually tell her train times, and about three people in high-vis vests are arguing at the door to the electrical storeroom. Three are shouting down the length of the platform at one another about mice and wires acting as though there aren't people everywhere. In vain, they attempt to shout directions over the heads of people taller than them and judging by the shortness of their tones to match the shortness of their heights, Emma guesses this has been going on for a while.

It appears the world is having a bad morning.

So many things going wrong and it isn't even eight o'clock yet – must be a Monday morning.

Suddenly, there's a static sort of beeping from the overhead speakers that's more crackle than the usual tune, and several people around her take a single earphone out from their ears.

 _"Good morning commuters, we apologise once again for the confusion this morning. Our communication system has left us high and dry, but there are no current transport delays. The next train to arrive on platform one to the city via Arenvale will arrive in three minutes, and the next train to arrive on platform two to Misthaven is about seven minutes away. I hope your morning is better than Leroy's, our rather irate electrical engineer, who is currently ankle deep in cables."_

There's a small flickering of a smile drifting across the faces of a few of the people near her, and Emma very quickly gets the feeling that Leroy has been the butt of the overhead commentary for more than one announcement.

True enough, in the next few minutes as Emma waits for her train, practically counting down the seconds until she can get coffee (even if it's the horrible instant stuff they have at work), Leroy becomes increasingly more irritable. Especially, with the chatter from the PA system.

The announcer makes his addresses with adequate politeness, but it is his ribbing of Leroy that truly shows how tired he is of speaking into the microphone. But it is also his gentle ribbing of Leroy that makes everyone but the teenagers with their headphones crammed in chuckle.

Leroy passes by her several times, shoulders slumped, mumbling to himself, and swearing under his breath to someone called Jones.

"… _Leroy, quit your mucking about, I'm due a coffee break."_

 _"…Leroy, have you tried turning it on and off again?"_

.

In a world of constant updates and communication breakthroughs it's somewhat of a wonder that when Emma gets to the station the next morning it's all still broken.

The only difference is there's no confused alertness from her fellow commuters, no sense of frazzled morning chaos.

But then, everyone at the station was here at the same time yesterday.

The screens are still dead, but Leroy has clearly given up because there are no more than the regular staff members milling about, no shouting. Only suits, and briefcases and school children in uniforms of green and gold, and none of them seem to really care, their minds completely elsewhere.

The only person who seems to care is the guy still stuck making the announcements.

 _"Another brilliant morning here, where everything is plain sailing aside from the obvious. We're thinking of reinstating those old bloody wooden things that tell you when the next train is coming. Or you could just continue to use the app like half of you are already doing. Personally, I think I have the voice for this, I sound rather dashing."_

She almost feels sorry for the poor guy.

.

Maybe she should have been more careful about where she was walking, but she's made this walk a million times before, she could practically do it with her eyes shut.

Well, almost.

The email that came through from work is long, and dense, and marked with a bright red URGENT in her inbox, and so she's still reading it when the train doors open and she walks out onto the platform.

And honestly, it's like second nature to her now. She knows how wide the gap between the platform and the train is and she follows the stream of people that know what they're doing. They are the same people she recognises day in day out as they pace through the doors and around the people that are impatiently waiting to get onto the carriage. It's like follow the leader, like a school of fish swimming up the stairs to the small bridge that crosses the railway lines, each one of them trusting in the person beside them to carry them mindlessly through the peak hour pedestrian traffic.

Day-in, day-out.

What she doesn't expect is the deadline that she reads at the end of the email regarding a child's removal application. Nor does she expect the steady body that she walks into before she's even made it to the stairs.

"Sorry," she starts, more of a reflex than an apology.

Emma walks straight into a man with dark brown hair, his hands automatically grasping onto her arms to balance her.

"Think nothing of it, love, I quite fancy women throwing themselves at me."

It's such a terrible line.

They're both terribly aware of it, too. There is no lechery in his smile, however, as though the line is as much a reflex for him as her apology was for her. Truth is he's only half paying attention to her, having not yet turned to her from the flickering blue screen that used to read train times.

But he does a double take when he sees her, eyes suddenly catching with her own, the corner of his smile flickering up a tad more. She knows where this is going before he even reopens his mouth.

"And _you_ are more than welcome to keep doing so."

Emma rolls her eyes to bluntly rebuff him when something occurs to her.

He's familiar.

She can't place it. Can't quite figure out if it's his face, or something about his mannerisms. His hands leave her sides with an awkward shuffle as though he didn't mean to hold on so long but Emma is too distracted to think of how she knows him. She is usually so good with names and faces and she just utterly draws a blank with him.

And she hates not knowing things.

"Why do I get the feeling like I should know you?" It comes out probably a bit too bluntly, but she is definitely short of patience today.

He doesn't seem to mind. There's a playful glimmer in his eyes and she instantly regrets giving him the opening. She should have told him he was dreaming, skirted around him, and followed the rest of the fish out of the station.

Instead he responds with a smile and an arched eyebrow to match.

"I've no clue, but I'd be happy to help jog your memory."

Emma heaves a briefly frustrated sigh, but it only makes him chuckle a bit.

"Really?"

"Not a fan of terrible pick-up lines?"

He looks harmless enough, seemingly more interested in bantering with her than truly hitting on her. There is no leer in his eye, no real motive. He is more mischief than anything else.

But she's not in the mood for this, she's had a seriously long day and wants to curl up and forget that half of it ever even happened.

"I live for men hitting on me," she says at him sarcastically before stepping around him, walking in the direction of home.

And the entire walk home she can't think of how she knows him. He's young and good-looking, stubbled and well-dressed, but none of that helps Emma with the niggle of who his is on the tip of her tongue.

Fortunately, she only has to wait until the next morning to figure it out.

.

She knew she knew him.

But she is more than averagely surprised when she realises just how. And it wasn't his face she should have recognised, nor the way that he stood.

 _"The train arriving on platform two is headed northbound to Misthaven and is running five minutes late. There are a lot of delays this morning, so watch where you're going, most likely lots of angry commuters. Particularly, if you're a blonde in a red leather jacket."_

She's only half listening.

Emma still has her train card in hand, absently thumbing at the curling edges of the laminate, and is trying to rush down the length of the platform to the spot she knows the carriage she wants will stop at. That's when her brain clicks in realisation.

She should have recognised his voice.

Normally, the rush just as the train starts to slow down at the platform would mean she goes unnoticed by everyone else, people trotting down the stairs, jogging past, stepping closer to the edge to meet the doors, but several heads turn towards her as they catch two things.

Her blonde hair, and her red leather jacket.

The spot that she stops at just so happens to be a few steps past his office window. As she makes it there, she sees him smiling from his desk and gives him a look that's equal parts ' _what the hell'_ and ' _seriously_?', equal parts cringe and smile - she's too tired to monitor the look, and she knows it should pack more angered heat than it does.

He winks at her-

And just like that her morning routine changes.

Emma wakes up (with great difficulty), Emma throws on clothes, makes coffee, checks her emails, make up, teeth. Emma leaves the house, trudges the few minutes to the station through the cold, waits for the little swiping melody of her card as she passes through the barriers—

And stands on the platform just in front of the water tap waiting for the English man with the blue eyes to hit on her over the announcement system.

Monday morning he tells them all that he's proud of them for even managing to get up at the start of the workweek, and not so subtly adding, " _However,_ _not all of you need the beauty sleep"._

It's a Wednesday when he informs them all that dawn had been bright red that morning, and to not be lulled into a false sense of security at the current sunshine. But not before adding a, " _There's a spare umbrella in my office if you need one, love"._

It's a Friday morning when he suggests that there's a little Italian restaurant by the docks that serve their own family grown wine, and _"There's a particularly nice red that would pair well with the arrabiatta. But it doesn't go nearly as well as that navy top does with your eyes, love... The train on platform one is running three minutes late."_

He seems to be amusing himself as much as anything, but the peak hour regulars that train with her seem to smile and chuckle along with his commentary about the weather, about commuter courtesy and boundaries, about Emma's hair. Since he started to address Emma, his tone has picked up considerably, no longer yawning occasionally into the microphone.

Leroy is no doubt relieved that Killian has moved on from him to her.

The system has been down for three weeks and every single morning his voice rumbles across the sound system dishing out train times, delays, and notes at the end of his messages for Emma. Some of the other people in their suits and their morning haze smile at her when he starts speaking, knowing looks and soft acknowledgements.

She has no idea what they must think her relationship is with the – and he actually called himself this once – _the dashing controller_. She thinks they think they're dating, or something. Whatever it is, she brushes off what would otherwise make her uncomfortable because it's mostly nonsense.

She knows what she said, the roll of her eyes as she derisively told him she lived for men hitting on her, but this doesn't feel like this same thing somehow.

It's more banter than making a pass at her, more foolish commentary that embarrasses him more than it does her.

And against her better judgement, Emma finds it amusing.

(If you asked her she'd probably deny just how much she suddenly doesn't really mind going to the station in the mornings.)

.

And against her better judgement, Emma finds herself disappointed the morning they fix the system.

She's running a little ahead of time when the announcement for the next train on platform two rings out with a pristine yet clunky sounding woman's voice, informing them how far away the train is, just slightly mispronouncing the station names. The screens have switched back from blue to white, the names of the stops and the times scrolling with the number of cars as per their usual.

And Emma is seeking out his office before she's really thought properly about it.

The control room sits snuggly between the two outdoor platforms, windows peering out of either side, and no one even tries to stop her when she ducks in a door that she's only guessing leads to his office. It's infinitely warmer inside, and when she spies him, he's sitting behind a desk, rubbing his eyes beneath his fingers.

"I see you've been demoted?"

He doesn't see her in the doorframe and nearly jumps, hand flying into his hair.

When he realises it's her he does spin smoothly in his chair, leaning backwards. His office looks like it's only been painted twice in its life - once in a turquoise blue, and another in a light beige. The beige peels away sadly in several places revealing the blue, the computers look terrifyingly old, the shelves in dire need of an aggressive feather duster, and Emma remembers just how unimportant their little station is, and why it may have taken so long for them to fix the announcements.

His grin breaks out at the sight of her.

"Aye, technology will inevitably take our jobs from us it seems."

Crossing her arms, Emma smiles at him softly.

"Yeah, well, I think your attempt at a coup was doomed from the start."

The chair squeaks as he stands from it, crossing over the short space to stand in front of her.

"Killian Jones," his voice is low, his accent telling in the way he says his own name.

It's a simple introduction, the simple extension of his hand. And oddly enough the thing that throws Emma most is that there's no flirtation in it. No smirk, none of the winking that he usually throws at her each morning she passes by his window.

It rattles her.

It turns her coming into his office into something more than banter, more than a hello, all with the simple open smile he wears.

(Too open, too telling.)

She takes his outstretched hand a little hesitantly.

"Emma," but she does take it, fingers carefully clasping around his own. "Swan."

Suddenly, Emma is uneasy. Killian's hand fits into hers too easily, or something, he's smiling at her too earnestly, standing too closely. It had been fine a minute ago - then again, she hadn't been expecting the strange sort of genuine regard she's suddenly looking straight at, suddenly feeling in the hold of his hand.

He looks about to say something more, mouth just parting when the automatic announcement informs Emma that her train is just approaching.

He doesn't even bother trying to pick up his own train of thought when Emma speaks first.

"I've gotta go."

Killian nods a little disappointedly, but hides it quickly.

"Thwarted by technology again."

She smiles something akin to an apology and it's there she falters because she's actually relieved to get out of there, to slip her hand from his, to step away from his proximity.

(Emma's unsure whether it's her heart that falters, or her nerve.)

.

She's often wondered that if maybe she had more things, and furniture, rugs, paintings on the wall, whether Emma's apartment would heat more easily. It would surely make it seem cosier and maybe then, just once, she would wake up in the morning and not feel as though hell had frozen over.

Her apartment leaves a lot to be desired.

So does his office, but one thing she did spot in the corner was an old blue flue heater.

And just like that her morning routine changes again.

She bursts through his door almost every single morning now, throws off her gloves, and stands in front of his heater.

He's midway through a phone call the first time she does it and eyes her suspiciously as she passes him and gives him absolutely no explanation as to why she's there.

"Not that I mind, love, but is there any particular reason you've come in here, guns blazing?"

Emma doesn't answer.

Killian takes it in his stride, turning his enquiry from the obvious that is her making herself at home in his office, and talking about anything else. He asks her gentle questions about things she likes, about her job ( _"I'm a social worker"_ ) and quickly learns when to stop asking her gentle questions about her job ( _"What made you get into it?" "Rough childhood. Not really worth mentioning."_ _"Fair enough."_ )

It's only for a few minutes each morning – ten at the most, a minute at the least – but Killian's shock dwindles with each time that she 'casually' stops by. She mocks him one morning about the ageing computer that he _"bloody well can't stand"_ and he in turn tugs a little on her windswept curls that she rarely ties back, no matter how windy the winter weather is outside.

He's still not as flirtatious as he was when they first met, when he would talk to her over the PA system, but it doesn't throw her anymore.

She steals a bite out of his bear claw one morning, and the next day he's bought two. They say nothing of that either. They say nothing of the casual intimacy they've suddenly found themselves in despite the fact they barely know each other at all.

But she likes it.

So, Emma keeps doing it. Monday to Friday, for a couple of weeks.

(And she's not too far off admitting to herself whether he's an excuse to use the heater, or the heater's an excuse to see him.)

.

There are bad mornings, and then there are bad days.

And when she pours out of the train that Thursday with everyone else, she's had a spectacularly terrible run of both. To the point where she's not thinking straight and she's aggravated, and she's considering getting home and changing out of her skirt and into her sneakers straight away so she can aggressively run around the block a couple of times.

She doesn't know whether she's about to hit someone or start crying, and she hates that she's close to either one of them.

And of course, that's when Killian is leaving work, shutting his door behind him.

He smiles when he sees her, but that smile fades almost instantly when he notes the look on her face, the weary emotions no doubt wrinkling in on her features. She tried for years to harden herself to things, the world, her work – to other people – but Emma knows that her emotions read as clearly on her face as anyone else's.

"Come on, Swan," his hand finds the small of her back. "In here."

The pressure of his hand on her back should just be a simple touch of nothing in particular, especially given the heavy grey coat she's wearing. But she feels it, and resists every urge she has to turn around, to make him remove it, to make him keep it there—

Emma has no idea where her head is at.

(And it's been like this with him for weeks. Wanting to run from the way he smiles at her, but needing more of it at the same time.)

He uses his keys to unlock his office door, and Emma hesitates before sitting on the top of his desk and running her hands in her hair, untangling her fading waves. It's quiet in the room for once, most of the equipment turned off. There's easily more hustle and bustle in the mornings, and she almost feels awkward here now as he rummages in his bag for something.

Taking a deep breath Emma tries not to think about it too much. She feels that tell tale choke in her throat, the one that tells her she's closer to tears than anger now, can hear it thumping in her ears, in the shortness of her breath.

A bottle of rum appears before her.

"What is that?"

Killian is unfazed.

"It's a drink, Emma."

"Why are we drinking in your office?"

"You look like you could do with one."

Emma concedes – and agrees emphatically.

Taking the small bottle and untwisting the cap Emma takes a small sip. There's a bit of an eyebrow conversation whereby he tells her she's welcome to drink more, or as much as she likes. Emma doesn't argue, feeling the slight burn as she drinks, as he moves so he's not standing in front of her watching her do it, the heels of his shoes scuffing on the floor making more noise than anything else in the room.

It's supposed to burn out the other choking feeling, the one where she feels like she's going to cry; two burns, cancelling each other out.

It doesn't.

The rum builds in her throat like the tears do. Which is not good, she is not about to cry in front of Killian, in his office.

She does what she knows how to do best.

"So you must really like trains then, huh."

Emma deflects.

His fingers pry the rum from hers gently, as he huffs a small laugh, to take a drink of his own.

"Not particularly, no."

He takes a larger gulp than she did, and Emma watches as he tilts his head slightly. He's a little less neatly shaven than usual, his stubble drifting further down the length of his neck, the fringe of his hair getting a little straggly.

Killian catches her staring.

"Just a job, huh?" She follows up, and he nods in reply. "What would you rather be doing?"

Killian moves to sit next to her, both of their feet still touching the ground. He seems suddenly sadder, his eyes averting hers, thumb picking at the labelling of the small bottle in his hand. Clearly, work is sensitive for the both of them.

"I used to work on a ship. A ferry, actually. Argued with my boss too much, evidently, and ended up here. He was a bit dramatic, though – called it mutiny when I disagreed with him."

Emma laughs at that, stealing the bottle of rum from him, and shaking it poignantly in his face.

"What does that make you, a pirate?"

"If only, love. A rebel maybe."

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

He swallows before replying.

"Indeed," the word is spoken so softly she can't help but turn to face him properly.

A mistake – he's sitting _so_ closely, his face far too near to hers. There's a genuine glimpse to his expression, something unguarded that Emma doesn't know what to do with, not even a little bit, not even at all. It makes her antsy more so than the day she learnt his name. It makes her want to keep staring at him, to lean forward, to leave immediately.

(Emma has no idea where her head is at.)

Worst of all Emma realises what he's confessed to.

There is a part of her that wants to tell him too, to confess that she feels something of the same, but…

It sits choking in her throat with the rest of everything else she feels.

The longer she says nothing, the more that one word sinks into the air around them.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

He changes the topic, this time for himself. Emma can't say she blames him, only hopes that he could sense the things she wants to admit, wants to deny where they sit on her tongue.

Another swig from his rum, another sigh that is loud in the small space.

"Some cases are harder than others."

His fingertips startle her. One after the other they brush against hers, and although his end goal is clearly to take the rum back from her, he starts off far too far down her hand, is much too gentle in his movements for it to be his only goal.

Maybe he can read more than just the emotions on her face, maybe he can read the ones on her tongue, as well.

"Too close to home?"

She has no idea how he has done this, how she is sitting here in his office, subtly and not so subtly skirting the truth. Emma is so used to keeping people at arm's length…

But Killian?

He grabs the bottle of rum, scratching behind his ear as he does.

And Emma does something she hasn't done in a long time.

"That's putting it lightly. They remind me of myself. And I hate that I'm just as helpless to help them sometimes as anyone ever was to help me."

She opens up.

.

It's freezing the next day.

She can feel the cold of the morning on the tip of her nose, numbing and niggling, and the wind is unrelentingly unhelpful.

She begins to rub at it as she makes her way through the turnstiles, the leather of her gloves doing very little, too coarse and too scratchy where her nose is soft.

But, God, she's cold and it's a wonder she ever got out of her bed at all.

(Not to mention the emotional hang over from yesterday that was just begging for a day off.)

Emma doesn't even hesitate as she wanders into his office to say good morning, making a beeline for the old gas heater that she knows will be on. The gloves come off – only literally – pulling each finger out so she can toss them on his desk and hold them near the grill as though it is an open fire.

It's what she does every morning.

"I don't know how you do it."

He's still at his desk, leaning back in his chair, arms behind his head, when she walks in.

"Do what exactly?"

"Wake up. Before dawn. Every day."

Emma jumps up and down a bit, shaking some feeling back into her limbs. It's Friday. She just has to make it through today and then tomorrow it can be as cold as it likes, for as long as it likes, because Emma doesn't have to leave her apartment for two days.

"Believe it or not, I like the cold. And the mornings."

"This coming from the man who has the world's most efficient heater a few feet away from him."

Emma turns around, rotating to warm her back as well as her front, only to find Killian in a similar position as he was yesterday – standing in front of her, a drink in his hands practically in libation.

"You got me coffee."

"Aye, that I did."

"Why?"

Killian sighs, loudly, but not in that way he does when he's rolling his eyes, nor like he does when she teases him. He's steeling himself for something. His eyes are locked with hers, his blue intent on telling her something.

That warring element inside Emma suddenly feels on high alert, wary of the oncoming test to its flight or fight responses.

"Because, Emma, as should be quite obvious by now, I rather fancy you. And yesterday was clearly very taxing for you, and when you care about someone, it's not out of the realm of possibility that you might want to do something nice for them so they might feel better."

It's such a simple admission.

Yet, Emma falters again.

She falters in her heart again, feeling it stutter in her stomach. And she falters in her nerve again, only this time the fumbling of her nerves doesn't drive her out of his office, rather it keeps her there; keeps her from running.

Killian must see it, the way it blinks in her eyelashes, because as she takes a sip out the paper cup he gently sways from one foot to the other. He looks so nervous. There is some sort of bravado trying to edge it's way out but they're both aware of what he's said.

(It's what he said yesterday, too.)

And even more so they're both aware of the growing silence of Emma's.

But she is too busy staring at him, reading him, searching for something disingenuous. Trying to decide if it's better or worse that he's not just trying to sleep with her.

"Thank you," she croaks eventually.

She's sure any other man would be offended by the response, by the fact she hasn't returned the sentiment. But he doesn't. Killian does what he's so good at – takes a deep breath, changes the topic for her, and flirts with her.

"Any time, love. But you do, of course, now owe me."

"Oh really? And how do you figure that?" Emma can't help but smile, happy to see the smile on his face flicker and tilt more to one side than the other.

"It was extremely arduous buying that."

"Mmhmm."

"The queue was incredibly long."

"I'm sure it was."

With each word he moves in a little closer and Emma's smile betrays her as with each step, each word, it grows. She doesn't move more than to place her coffee down on the desk beside her, licking her lips to pick up stray foam, and still somehow she seems to move closer into the heater.

She can feel it burning the backs of her legs like the coffee in her stomach, and the blush on her cheeks.

His eyes are way too alive for so early in the morning, the glint of mischief once again in their blue.

"How ever will you repay me?" There's a teasing lilt to his accent, a low rumble in his nudge.

It's not instantaneous.

There's no sudden snap judgement. Perhaps it looks like it with the way she yanks him into her. But she stares at him too long, every muscle in her body wavering this way and that, trying to make up its mind and arguing with her gut to such an extent that the decision to kiss him is anything but impulsive.

But she does kiss him.

Her hands curl around the collars of his black pea coat and she kisses him before she chickens out.

Killian seems surprised as her lips meet his. He takes a moment to inhale, to sway, to grab her hip, before he even begins to kiss her back. Emma can't tell what he tastes like, all she can taste is coffee on the edges of her taste buds, but it's the only sense of hers suddenly not overwhelmed by him.

His fingers trace her cheekbone until they lose themselves in her hair, pulling her gently back in so he can pull at her bottom lip, encouraging her to come back for seconds, for thirds, for – he just wants to keep kiss her, counting be damned. She knows the feeling, but she doesn't need convincing. His lips are soft against her own, his stubble grazing gently even as he kisses her with everything he's got – it's incentive enough.

Incentive enough to make her fingers move from his coat to quietly touch the nape of his neck.

(The way her heart scatters in her chest, that's incentive too.)

There's a train coming in on a platform that is probably hers, the automated message ringing out dully in the distance. But it is only dull. Killian is puffing against her lips in-between kisses, struggling not to make a noise in the back of his throat when she stumbles backwards and knocks into the heater.

He smells like whatever it is he showered in that morning, and his own cup of coffee. But touch, touch definitely wins out as his hips lean her into the heater, as his nose bumps against hers in a quiet plea for more, for something, for her.

Emma pulls away, her eyes slipping open and for all his prior bluster there's a pinkish tinge to the pointy tips of his ears and dotted around the apple of his cheeks that she can't help but hope has nothing to do with the cold, or the heater.

She's definitely not cold anymore, where there was morning chill now there is only heat.

The mischief is all gone from his face, and she presses her forehead to his. He thinks it's in invitation for more, nose tilting somewhat against hers but Emma teases him, leaning back while not really leaning away.

"That was…"

But Emma doesn't let him finish.

"For the love of God, just, don't say anything over the speakers."

His eyes open, heavily coloured in disbelief and something yearning she can't quite put her finger on. The look would confuse her if she didn't feel the same way, if her heart would settle down, and her uneven breathing would fix itself.

"As you wish," he laughs, coming out more like puffs of air.

The phrase kissing someone senseless doesn't know what it's talking about because right now, she's a mess of senses, and the exact opposite of what the phrase intends.

Technology thwarts them again. There's a noise about another train she should really get on. Her hands on either of his cheeks, she pushes herself away from the heater, and he walks backwards with her for a few steps.

But with her hand on one cheek, she kisses him on the other, slower and less casually than a kiss on the cheek really should be. Killian almost looks too dumbfounded to fight her as she slips out from between him and the heater, his hands still in mid-air where they sat in her hair and her back.

Emma pulls away with as much battle as it took to kiss him in the first place. Grabs her coffee, grabs her bag, and slips out with a quiet goodbye.

She can't tell if she's running away from him, or simply running to work, her mind is in such a daze as she stumbles through the train doors, the trace of his nose on her cheek still there, the feel of his tongue against the edge of her lip still there.

She's forgotten her gloves and doesn't even care.

Sitting down on a faded fuzzy blue seat, Emma absent-mindedly presses the rim of the coffee cup in her hands against her lips wishing that the pressure against them came from a different source.

(Remembering and wishing.)

She tries to tell herself it's just a kiss (it is just a hand at her back, it's just a simple admission).

She truly can't find it in herself at the moment to keep up the argument, she'll try again later.

Emma decides that there might actually be such a thing as a good morning.


End file.
